


Another Machine That Won't Stop

by ticktockclockwork



Series: Another Machine That Won't Stop [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 11:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When creating a robot, you know they will be so very distinct from us humans. But when you give that robot the ability to have emotions, where is the line drawn between human and bot? And when that bot is Sherlock Holmes, the lines becomes blurrier. John Watson, a clever mechanic, is assigned to this revolutionary robot and through their dangerous and addicting adventures, he learns more about humanity and the true definition of it than he'd ever known before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The silence is bearable but irritating which given the situation and his circumstances, is quite ironic. Irritation was not supposed to be in his system. But irritation was something he was very good at.

“You are my new guardian.” It isn’t a question. The answer is already known.

“Yes. It appears that way.” The human was nervous. Unsure. “My name is John. John Wat-“

“I am aware of your name.”

“..Oh uhm right. They probably already downloaded my file, right.” He looked back down at the paperwork in his hand. “They say your system ID is code named Sherlock.”

“Correct.”

“And that you malfunctioned, showing signs of emotional imitation.”

“…. Yes, it appears that way.” Mimicry. Not his best.

Brown eyes swiveled up to watch him and he had to resist the urge to sneer, something he’d picked up from his manufacturer. It was an easy trait to absorb given how frequently he saw it. Mycroft was the Queen of Sneers. Or so he’d aliased.

The human was quiet for too long. Irritation was returning. Emotions he was not supposed to have. Human emotions, learned and returned. How was a computer to feel annoyance, especially in the face of sitting idle? He had a mode for that. A mode he rarely employed. His mind was too important, too powerful to put idle. He was too important, too powerful to put idle. If only other humans would se- “Fantastic.” … that.

It was blue to meet brown now as he turned with surprise, just a flick of his eyes and a twist in his brow to indicate his change of state. The human, John Watson, was smiling. Smiling in wonder. He was… dare he surmise… impressed. And Sherlock couldn’t look away.

“Uhm.” John broke the line. “Huh, sorry. I just… I’ve worked with some phenomenal programs and hardware but I haven’t seen any bots that have the ability to be snarky. Or bored. Or annoyed. Or whatever you just were.” So the human was more observant than he’d suspected. Interesting.

“Bots,” He had to pause to contain the disgust he felt for such a generalizing word. “Do not have that ability.” He stated. “We were not built that way.” They were words he’d heard a thousand times before, thrown in his direction whenever he’d upset the human equilibrium, when he’d made them nervous by encroaching on a territory that was distinctly organic.

“No, _they_ were not. But you were.” The human was still smiling and had gone back to reading through his file, having skipped ahead to his schematics. “It’s brilliant, really. _You’re_ brilliant.” A small cant of his head and Sherlock was looking sidelong to his new guardian, his new mechanic. All the others had been so unqualified, so incapable, so… wrong. Perhaps someone had finally gotten it right.

“My ID is Sherlock Holmes.” He stated, garnering his new companions attention once more as he finally looked forward. “Passcode 221BBakerSt. It is a pleasure to meet you, John Watson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22107904166/the-silence-is-bearable-but-irritating-which-given)


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes had realized, far too late and with too much surprise, that the mechanic known as John Watson had never seen him work. Which was most notably why he was being a complete show off.

The crime scene was this: Deceased female. Four point five metres from the only door in the room. Door unlocked. Gunshot wound to deceased female’s head. Gunshot residue on deceased female’s hands. Likely culprit. No gun. No ID. No eyes. 11.3% Suicide. 79% Homicide. 98.8% assisted involuntary suicidal type killing. One (1) nude suede pump missing. Press on nails scratched off. Deceased female likely fought back. Was overcome. Now deceased. One (1) killer-calling-card left behind.

A standard Bicycle © brand playing card.

King of spades.

Eyes crossed out.

Serial murderer.

Splendid.

“It looks like she attempted to fight back.” The mechanic. Slow. Clever, but slow. This wasn’t his area. He wasn’t built for this. He was built to fix, not to dream. Built to correct, not to invent. This was Sherlock’s world. And it was time for the mechanic to watch.

“Correct. She fought in, what I can only assume was, a valiant effort. But all for not. Two metres from the door she was dragged in. Her heels scraped the aged wood floor. One came upended and lost in the scuffle. She was thrown down given the state and degree of bruising both on her patella and articulatio cubiti. Or, for your simple orgo minds, her knees and her elbows. She was stroked, as seen by the smearing of her makeup, as such,” Sherlock, crouched by the body, tilted his head and rest his hand over the woman’s face, dragging his thumb just barely over the woman’s lips. “She was then given a gun. Twenty-two caliber hand gun, brand unknown without bullet fragments. Positioned execution style. Ordered to shoot herself. She cried, tear tracks. Begged, one would assume. Most likely held at gunpoint. Lose-lose situation as you orgo’s call it. She pulled the trigger. Brain matter hit floor, wall and murderer. Murderer, startled, stepped back, stepped in blood and skull fragments. Shoe slid, killer grabbed wall here.” He stopped to stand and point this out. “Killer took left pump, purse and gun. Closed door behind them.”

Sherlock was standing next to the body once again, hands behind his back, looking down at the poor woman on the floor. His eyes were flicking down and around, one last scan of the situation before he looked up to find his mechanic and the Detective Inspector watching him.

“So, what’s the build on the killer then, would you say?” The Detective Inspector spoke first. “Male, say perhaps five foot nine, ten? Medium build?”

Sherlock was confused, confused and irritated. “Are you being dense on purpose or is that your natural state of mind?” He asked and the DI grew red in the face. “Neither. Female, five foot six, slight. Red hair, purple, cheap business suit. Works on the docks, probably an accountant.”

“How the bloody fucking hell do you know all that?” The DI was upset now, shown up by an autobot within ten minutes of being on the scene. He’d clearly never worked with Sherlock before.

“Well, to start, I am not an imbecile. And to finish, I am not an im-be-cile.” He sneered and was only stopped from continuing when his mechanic stepped in.

“Alright, Sherlock, stand down.” It was an order. It was doubtful he was going to follow.

“Get your toy under control, Watson.” The DI was more upset than first theorized.

“Alright, alright.” John was placating him. “Sherlock meant no harm, just doing his job.”

“His JOB is to figure out what happened, not make a fool of the police force.”

“And he did figure out what happened. Let it go, no need to get your bonnet in a mess.”

“Excuse me?!”

“I believe the man stated that you do not need to get your pretty bonn-“

“ALRIGHT Sherlock. That is enough!” John was staring at Sherlock hard but Sherlock could see the smile threatening to break his seriousness. “If that is all you need, Detective Inspector, I believe it would be best if we moseyed on out of the way. I’m confident our _capable_ police force can handle the rest, no?” Platitudes. Boring.

With more skirt ruffling and head patting John eventually got them out of the crime scene and into a waiting taxi unharmed and un-arrested. Sherlock slid in first and John slumped in after, rubbing his face with apparent exhaustion. It was a moment before he spoke. “Note to self: Add deep seated attitude and incorrigible sass to the list of things Sherlock the Robot can do.” John muttered to himself behind his hands. When he came up though he was smiling and Sherlock couldn’t help but return it in slight, looking out his window as the car pulled away from the curb.

“Has no one told you, John Watson? Sass is one of my default settings.” The burst of laughter from his side was well worth all the hassle at the crime scene in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22241573538/sherlock-holmes-had-realized-far-too-late-and)


	3. Chapter 3

It had been this:

Sixty seven days.  
Five and one fourth murders.  
Ten meals at Angelo’s.  
Two kidnappings.  
Eleven bomb scares.  
Twenty seven Chinese takeaways.  
Three dates.  
Three failures.

And one near death experience.

“I don’t know what you were thinking.” John sounded upset as he shuffled and eased himself into the chair to the right of Sherlock. “I mean. Don’t your data systems have a risk calculator? Shouldn’t you have known better?” John winced as he sunk into the well-worn cushions, finding little comfort in the old crushed velvet and stink of the smoke room it once inhabited. Bruised rib, Sherlock was guessing.

“I almost had him.” Was all Sherlock said in response, fingers laced and pulled up close. He was resting his lips to them, staring into the needless fire with what looked like contemplation but was really contempt.

“No.” John was shaking his head with raised brows and a tight smile. “Oh no you did not. While some automatons were built to run faster than the normal human, you were not. You were built to think faster, react, calculate faster. Not run. Long legs or not.” John was still shifting uncomfortable. Possibly two ribs then. The cut on his lip was bleeding again, as well, agitated with the Mechanic’s fussings.

When he’d found the least of all painful positions, John looked up to watch Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t return the favor, caring not to look upon the face of the fragile and increasingly irritating human. He watched the flames instead, feeling the heat though finding no calm in it, instead reworking, for the fifth time, the whole scenario in his head.

He should have had him.

He should have been faster.

He should have been able to make that jump.

But he didn’t.

“I really wish you’d let me fix you.” Sherlock’s lip curled up like a canine and he cast John a quick disgusted look. “Not like that. But look at yourself. You’re a bloody mess.” John sounded exasperated, looking over all the damage Sherlock had incurred in his irrational and ill-thought out vigilante action. Sherlock didn’t blame him even if he didn’t appreciate it.

That near death experience? Not John’s.

“I am fine.”

“No, no you aren’t.”

“ _Human_ ,” A pause for emphasis. “I am much more educated, superior in design and function, and my mental capacity with trump yours for decades to come. Thus we can conclude from here till your pathetic flesh body decays, which frankly might not be long with the way you bumble around like a fool, when I say I am fine, I. Am. Fine.” He was cutting a glare at his mechanic and somewhere in there he’d struck a nerve.

“You’re wrong and we both know it. Because your fucking superior design didn’t stop you from needing me back in that alley when you’d fallen three stories onto your face.”

Sherlock was up in an instant gripping the arms of John’s chair and looming over him, cornering him, blocking him and caging him. He was seething and if John wasn’t feeling quite the same he might find himself knee-deep in fascination at the fact that Sherlock was feeling any remote amount of anger, let alone at this elevated level. “Listen you ignorant layman. I never have needed you. Your assignment to my persons was not of my own volition and from here till the day I power off you will continue to just be a mutt under my foot.” He was close, a mere inch from John’s face. “Remember that John Watson. _I. Don’t. Need. You._ ”

The mechanic was breathing heavy and hot, Sherlock able to feel it on his lips, a sensation entirely new and irritatingly distracting. But then John did something Sherlock, in all his superior intellect and masterful craftsmanship, would never be able to do. All the anger just swept off his face, along with any other emotion. He was no longer shuddering with retorts bottled up. He was no long clenched jaw and finger. He was just… blank. Sherlock knew he was still angry; all calculations pointed to the fact that humans just cannot go from extreme to extreme that quickly. But John was not showing it and instead just lifted eyes up to Sherlock that made him nervous.

“Alpha sequence seven forty two.” He murdered and Sherlock frowned more. “Sherlock Holmes, step away from John Watson.” The mechanic’s voice was level. Eyes set and unwavering. And when Sherlock’s back straightened and his feet moved away without his consent, he was the only one to show his surprise. “Sherlock Holmes, sit down.” Down he went. “Sherlock Holmes,” John got in close now, practically hissing his last command. “Do not follow John Watson.” And then the mechanic was gone.

Sherlock didn’t know what bothered him more, as he was forced to sit there, in front of a fire that would never warm him, dealing with emotions he was never supposed to have: the fact that John had the ability to make him stay in one place… or that John knew the one command Sherlock did NOT want to obey.

John Watson, his mechanic and only friend, was gone and he was not allowed to try and stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22497108616/it-had-been-this-sixty-seven-days-five-and-one)


	4. Chapter 4

The car pulled up alongside the Mechanic known as John Watson, completely unexpected and not without worry. It had been a week since he had last seen his charge and he was finding that life was much less complicated without that incorrigible robot in it. It was also much less exciting but he was ignoring that trifle for the moment. Instead he was focusing on the alarmingly well tinted automobile that just drifted up next to him as he headed home from the shop.

Now, something should be known about John Watson: He was not a man to ask many questions. It wasn’t in his nature to inquire. Which was possibly why he’d found Sherlock so fascinating. Well… the emotions were really the true motivator for John’s fascination but it would be belittling to the force of nature that was Sherlock to say his insatiable curiosity wasn’t somewhat contagious. While John wasn’t the type to poke and prod where he wasn’t wanted, he did immensely enjoy living vicariously through Sherlock for that short amount of time he’d been with him.

Since he was no longer under the employ of the vicious and acerbic robot, he’d resorted back to his original no-nonsense, keep-to-himself John the Mechanic.

All that being said, John had never bothered to truly find out who had hired him to care for Sherlock. He knew names: a man named Mycroft Holmes, the likes of which no doubt penned Sherlock during his activation. And with a minimal amount of research John had discovered that this Mycroft fellow held a position in the government but just what he did and how much he did it was never determined nor desired. He checked out and was well achieved so John wasn’t worried.

But he also hadn’t been expecting sleek, tinted and questionable vehicles to pull up next to him, requesting his cooperation in the name of this Mycroft Holmes. John was beginning to see the family resemblance, frankly. And with that in mind he’d slid into the car, knowing better than to argue with a Holmes. Heaving a heavy sigh to let the car, and whomever else was occupying said car, know that this was a terribly inconvenience in the clearly exciting life of a tinkering mechanic, John sat back and closed his eyes to fight off the oncoming headache.

The drive was short but confusing, gliding easily and senselessly through the busy streets of London and to a more deserted area of town near the docks and away from any sort of help. He was escorted out of the car and pointed in the direction he should go. Through a set of pneumatic double doors and past a few questionable rooms, he’d finally come to a large open warehouse occupied simply by a few abandoned tables, a turned over chair and one man who could only be the Mycroft Holmes of legend.

He didn’t look that impressive.

“Ah. Mr. Watson. It’s a pleasure.” He held out his hand to shake but the offer wasn’t reciprocated and he dropped it with a good-natured (though slightly forced) smile on his face. “I hope the trip wasn’t too taxing?”

The small talk wasn’t doing it for John, a man who had already dealt with one irritating Holmes to last him awhile. “It’s unexpected. And you should know I don’t like surprises.”

The smile looked more true now on Mycroft’s lips as he tipped his chin down some, leaning on his umbrella. “Now now, we both know that isn’t quite true, is it?” He swung the umbrella up a little and shook his head. “But that is neither here nor there. I think you are aware of the topic of our imminent conversation, yes? Sherlock Holmes and your recent departure from his persons. Now I don’t remember terminating our contract or dismissing your services so I must ask, then, why have you not been attending to your duties this past week?”

John already didn’t really like him. “Oh, have you not heard, _Sir_? I was dismissed. I assumed Sherlock would have relay that message to you himself. He doesn’t _need_ me. And you can quote him on that.” He could hear the cut in his voice but he wasn’t in the mood to hold it back, even for the sake of keeping face.

Mycroft closed his eyes a moment as if to compose his thoughts but John could see the tightness in the man’s lips and the tense muscles in his jaw. He had learned a thing or two from Sherlock. “I see.” The polite smile was back. “Well, as I am the one who drew up our contract, I must say that you have not been dismissed nor will you be in the foreseeable future. Your… influence on Sherlock is good. I don’t want to see the progress you HAVE made with him lost.”

“Well with all due respect, Mr. Holmes, you can take that progress and stuff it because I am not going to go back and work with him.” He was being stubborn. He didn’t care. “I did my best. He can’t be helped.” The words felt wrong before they even left his lips. He knew they were wrong the moment he heard them, too. And he knew Mycroft could hear how wrong they were as well.

With Mycroft watching him so closely, John felt like he was being lectured non-verbally. “I have been unfair to you, John.” Mycroft finally admitted, shifting his stance to bring the umbrella between them, tapping it on the damp concrete. “There is something you need to know about Sherlock that might… aid you in your endeavors to find an equilibrium with him.” He sighed. “Sherlock was designed to be the best of both robots and humans. He embodies the pure calculations of automatons and bots, but we were able to capture the innate facets of human beings that has otherwise evaded the electronic community: their emotions. We wanted him to… be the best of both, to be able to use both and to be fantastic. And he is. But he is also more ostracized than we ever imagined he would be. We gave him so many gifts without thinking if he ever even wanted them.”

Mycroft paused and then breathed out a quiet laugh when he saw John’s confused face. “I know. I am speaking of him as if he actually is human. But if you would think that way too, just for the moment, it might help you understand him better. Yes, I agree, under the sudoflesh and acidic tongue, Sherlock is just the correct combination of gears and springs, motors and belts. But he has a human side to him, a human side to him that he does not understand and that we know not how to explain. Human emotions come natural to us but to him they are unnatural and foreign. And in giving him this we have removed him from a world he would otherwise completely be a part of: that of the automatons. But, because he is, essentially, just a robot, he is removed from the human world. He is neither robot nor human. And he knows this. And he hates this.”

John was listening closely, doing as he was told, and this truth, this knowledge was bitter on his tongue. He didn’t want to know it, he didn’t want to hear it because it would mean that leaving him, leaving Sherlock back in front of that fireplace was not wise. Not wise at all. “Where do I fit into all this?” He had to ask, quiet and under his breath.

“You, my dear friend, are the puzzle master. I need you to solve the puzzle that is Sherlock. You speak both languages, John. That of the bot and that of the human. I need you to be his translator. I need you to be his guide. Help him figure out who he is, what he is and where that leaves him in this society. I need you to help him find his place, his niche if you will. And I need you to protect him. Protect him from society, from the humans and the bots. From everyone. But most importantly… from himself.”

This was too much, too heavy to rest on a poor mechanic’s shoulders. The weight of it all was palpable and John felt it sink and fit to his form, unwanted and thick with responsibility. How could he handle this? How could he be the guide for something… someone that should never have been made? How? But… could he really say no?

“He needs protection, John Watson. I need you to protect him. Even when he refuses it. Can you do that? For me? For him?”

There was a long pause, long and dangerous, before the word was breathed out in that frigid open warehouse.

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22637732132/the-car-pulled-up-alongside-the-mechanic-known-as)


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was in the exact same place now as he was when John first left him. If John didn’t know better he might have thought Sherlock hadn’t moved at all during his week-long absence but he knew that was not the case. His override orders would have deactivated within a few hours of John giving it and Sherlock would have been free to do what he willed. And by the state of the flat, it looked as if he’d done just that.

Papers were laying around, comprised of various newspaper articles, journal sections and the local gossip rags that John was more prone to reading. The windows had been written all over with permanent marker and the wallpaper looked less than pleased with its torn off state. If Sherlock had been human there would have been plates and cups and trash around but as he was not, that was replaced, instead, by books, parts and human specimens that even John didn’t recognize. It was a calculated storm in that flat, pure chaos to John but very clearly organized music to the man now staring into the fire.

Though Sherlock was not human, he looked a mess. He either hadn’t bothered to fix himself up or he hadn’t allowed anyone to really touch him since John’s departure because the gash in his cheek and the cuts on his knuckles looked just as before, albeit a bit more dry. John hadn’t made it past the front threshold and he could already tell he shouldn’t have left.

Sighing out quietly he shook his head and moved inside, shutting the door deftly behind him. He didn’t bother saying hello, knowing they were far past that, and instead just moved over to where Sherlock sat in front of the fire. It had been brought back to life earlier this morning, no doubt by their very wonderful landlady, and the action was appreciated. Mrs. Hudson knew what Sherlock was but she never failed to treat him completely human, possibly even as her own son.

Setting his case down next to the chair he proceeded to clear himself a small radius of space around Sherlock’s chair, able to feel the bots eyes even if he didn’t hear his voice. When he was able to pull a stool in front of Sherlock, he sat down on it and pulled over his case. He was still moving carefully, favoring his right side, no doubt from the bruised ribs he was still tending to. Unclasping his case he let it fold open, revealing a master mechanic’s kit filled with spare parts, tools and a few well loved manuals tucked along the sides. John pulled out a large bottle of a clear liquid and a clean cloth, upending some of the liquid into the thick fabric.

Scooting the stool closer till his knees were brushing Sherlock’s, he lifted his right hand to hold Sherlock’s good cheek as he slowly pressed the wet cloth to the large wound on the side. There was no need to disinfect this pseudoflesh but John did need to clean it so he could stitch it up clean. It was one of his specialties, really. A few more dabs and the blood was cleaned off. John could see just the slightest hint of bright metal hiding beneath the folds of the torn flesh and he cringed. Blue eyes darted to capture the motion but still neither men spoke.

The rest of the cleanup process was easier. John had some fill for Sherlock’s knuckles and with some chemicals he got rid of the bruising. But the cheek still needed to be stitched up so with that in mind he pulled out a small box, inside of which was a spool of stitching thread, a few pairs of tweezers and a needle. John went about stringing up the small curved needle then let out a slow sigh. He finally looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze as he interlocked his knees with the other’s, getting as close as he could so he could work on Sherlock. He’d rather the other be laying down but he wasn’t sure how cooperative Sherlock would be with him right now.

Tilting his face gently, he turned so the cheek was faced to him. “Hold there.” He murmured, lifting the tweezers holding the needle. From there it was just the gentle in and out motion of the needle piercing nerveless flesh, tugging to bring it together and a soft snip at the end to close it all up. Without moving John put his suture kit away and reaching to grab a small vial of green liquid and a cotton swab, dabbing out the liquid on Sherlock’s cheek. He let it dry then sat back to watch as the stitches dissolved seamlessly into the gash, closing it up completely and all but making it disappear.

Thank you, modern medicine.

He breathed out and nodded before looking up to Sherlock. The other was watching him with an intense look, and John wasn’t ready to be on the receiving end of that just yet. He cleared his throat and slid away, turning to take a good amount of time packing up his things. When he was done he stood and looked around, not sure if he should go put his things in the room he’d been given upstairs or if he should leave. Sherlock still hadn’t spoken a word and the silence wasn’t comfortable for John, not when it felt like Sherlock was waiting for him, waiting for something from him.

When he looked up to the stairs to see them blocked by fallen towers of books, John had his answer. “Well…” He said, glancing briefly back to Sherlock before carefully stepping over the debris that was the flat to head to the front door. “I best be on my way, I suppose…” He hedged and would have breathed a huge sigh of relief when he felt a hand stop him if he wasn’t so nervous of the conversation that was sure to follow.

He turned to find Sherlock looming over him, intense stare still there. John had to look back this time, he couldn’t be cowardly right now. “You came back.” Sherlock spoke, barely above a whisper.

There was a pause before John spoke. “Yes.”

“You came back and you fixed me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You came back and you didn’t yell at me.”

“Yes… Sherlock-“

“I didn’t follow you. I did as I was told.”

John had to smile a little at that. It wasn’t as if Sherlock could have followed even if he’d wanted, not right away. But John knew he could have found him if he was determined, John hadn’t exactly been hiding. But Sherlock didn’t. And now he was telling John this, making him aware, begging for some sort of recognition for the good job. He was more of a child here and now than he had even been before.

“No. You didn’t. Thank you.” John said with genuine gratitude and finally, _finally_ some of the anxiety eased off his shoulders. “I am… sorry it took me so long to come back. I guess I got lost.” There was a hint of a smile at that on Sherlock’s lips and John was pleased he had put it there.

“Are you leaving?” Sherlock was apprehensive and that emotion was new.

“… Not if you don’t want me to. Not if you need me to stay.”

Sherlock finally looked away, unsure, running calculations in his head. John could hedge a guess that they were all coming up to one clear conclusion: that Sherlock really didn’t need John. But Sherlock either was denying his own calculations or there was more human to him than John had expected because when he spoke next it was to say, “I need you to stay. Will you stay?”

John met that stare, deeper than any human he’d seen and more desperate than even the most desolate of men. It was an obvious plea, one a robot should never have been able to give. “Yes. Of course, I will stay.”

The smile was small, but it was genuine, gentle as it pulled Sherlock’s lips apart. He nodded his head in acknowledgment before sliding his fingers along John’s to take his case from him. “I will go fix your room.”

Within an hour there was a clear path upstairs.

Within two, his room was back in order.

Within four, they’d had takeaway and straightened the rest of the flat back up.

And within twelve, John was completely moved into his room upstairs at 221B Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22690503165/sherlock-was-in-the-exact-same-place-now-as-he-was)


	6. Chapter 6

_John._

_…Shrlk?_

_No. It is Sherlock._

_That what I mean._

_Your grammar is suffering severely. Are you ill?_

_… no. Its 4Am._

_I know what time it is._

_Why r u txting me at 4 in the bloody morning._

_It is time to leave._

_Wat?_

_We have a case._

_No we don’t. not at 4am._

_We do. Get up, our flight leaves in two hours._

_Where?_

_Where what?_

_Where are we going?_

_Oh. Kintyre._

_Where?_

_Kintyre, Scotland._

_Oh.  
Wait, how r u txting me? U don’t have a phone._

_I intercepted the phone signals and rerouted data to send to your phone._

_What?_

_…I hacked your phone line._

_Of course you did. Be down in a bit._

_Splendid. I’ll put the kettle on._

-

They had been there a week. It was cold, it was wet and it had been a week. And as far as John could tell, they were no closer to solving the case than they had been back in London. At least there he could have stayed in bed. But Sherlock was enjoying himself, as much as any bot could. John guessed it was the change in surroundings that seemed to make him livelier. And as much as it ailed him to stand out here in the frigid drizzle, he wasn’t going to deny Sherlock some happiness, even at his own expense.

Of course, John was unaware of the fact that they were indeed much closer than they had been yesterday to finding the killer. Sherlock held the answers, John just followed along. He didn’t much mind. Except when he was damp with wet rain. Then he kind of minded.

They’d followed various leads to the countryside, which wasn’t far from the city center, really, when it came to Kintyre. But it felt remote and they were alone save for their singular guide who seemed completely oblivious to the rain. He was used to it, no doubt, as the forecast had said it had been like this for a week and would continue to be like this for the week to come. They were a few paces from his humble country home and John was looking up to Sherlock who stood up on a precipice, overlooking the surrounding areas.

“He’s an odd fellow, ain’t he?” The man who spoke was large and burly but kind, in that way that you knew he’d make a fantastic grandfather. He was dim, yes, but helpful. Simple was more the correct word to use, as John had reminded Sherlock earlier that day. He’d had only a few questions about why they were there and what they were looking for, but after Sherlock had flashed a possibly stolen badge, he’d been more than gracious in helping them out. His name was Hugo. And he stood nearly three heads above John.

“Hm?” John had been distracted, watching his companion as he stood above them, faultless eyes scanning, observing, recording.

“I said he’s a strange fellow. Ain’t quite right, no offense.”

John turned to Hugo now with a curious look. “Uhm, yeah.” Well of course. He would never be quite right. Right was human and Sherlock wasn’t that, so no, he would never be quite right. Could Hugo not see that?

But then it dawned on John… no, Hugo could not. Because Hugo thought Sherlock to be human. Completely, 100% organic. And that thought was absolutely fascinating. Either Hugo really was dim or Sherlock was getting much better at fitting in. And John being the kind bloke he was, was betting on the later. “I mean, yeah. He is a bit odd at times, but he’s good at what he does.”

“Oh yes, yes I can see that, aye I can. I ain’t meaning no offence.”

“No of course not.”

“I was just wondering because you ain’t so odd yourself, you know. And I find it curious that you’d follow him out here to the God’s end of the sea just to stand in the rain and watch him… well… watch everything else.”

Hugo was being kind and John could see that but he had a moment of defensiveness where he wanted to dismiss any notions immediately as to what Hugo might be thinking or implying. He wanted to say he wasn’t Sherlock’s pet if that was what he was thinking, but he knew Hugo wasn’t. And he wanted to say that nothing was wrong with him for coming out here with Sherlock if that was what he was implying, but he knew Hugo wasn’t. Hugo wasn’t thinking or implying anything, actually, and that in all its simplicity was a refreshing notion. And so John Watson reconsidered what he was going to say.

“I guess…” He licked his bottom lip a moment as he thought. “I guess it’s not easy to really explain why I’m out here.” And that was the truth. “He’s odd… but fascinating.” His eyes drifted up to his companion. “I can’t help but follow, you know? He’s my compass. He moves, I move.”

And that was it, right there. There was nothing more valid to describe his relationship with Sherlock than that. It had nothing to do with his duties as Sherlock’s mechanic. It had nothing to do with any obligations still held from the fight they’d had over two months ago. It had nothing to do with John’s interest in the craftsmanship of Sherlock robotic form. It was simpler than that, more basic, more elementary. Sherlock was North and he was South, back to back. When Sherlock moved, he moved. That was it.

Hugo was smiling at him, gentle and understanding before he turned and just looked back over his field. “You’re a lucky man then. To have that.”

“John!” Sherlock had turned sharp and quick to the side, his eyes trained on something out of John’s range. John came to attention, moving a few sidesteps as Sherlock was no sooner climbing swiftly down from his perch above them.

“Well, I best be… you know..” He jerked his thumb in the direction of Sherlock’s retreating form as the other stomped through the marshy field.

“I do, aye. Good luck John Watson.”

Waving over his shoulder he jogged to catch up with Sherlock. “Thanks Hugo! Really!” As they crested the hill, John lost sight of the man, but turned instead to his companion, his partner. His North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/22766369197/john-shrlk-no-it-is-sherlock-that-what-i)


	7. Chapter 7

The murder on 34th was a gruesome one. No wall was untouched, no object unturned. It was chaos and confusion and so many clues that you could barely tell what was helpful and what was noise. John looked upon that room with horror and dread. Sherlock looked upon it with glee.

“Has your crew touched the scene?” Sherlock spoke as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, not bothering to look back at Lestrade as the DI shook his head. He didn’t seem in the spirits for much else, looking at the walls and the body before turning away.

“Have at it, boys.” He told the two. John thanked him quietly before leaning in to get a better look.

“Think you can make heads and tails of it?”

“There aren’t any heads or tails here, John. So no.”

John gave him a deadpanned look, silent and unamused. “It’s an expression.”

“I’m aware. The point remains, though. No heads.”

And indeed there weren’t. While only one body graced the floor, all other figures or icons were decapitated as well. An opulent room made more grizzly. As if the body itself wasn’t enough, mangled and thrown down, a not-so-clean cut having severed the head from the neck. Three pictures on the walls were diced and two faux greek statuettes were missing their craniums as well. A message was clearly being sent.

“Can I come in?” John had been learning, knowing how fickle and protective Sherlock could be of his crime scenes. Just last week John had apparently stepped on the most crucial bit of evidence while they were tromping through the woods and it had been three days till he heard the end of it. Now he waited until Sherlock said it was okay, if only to avoid another irritating week of reminders.

“Yes. Just keep to the left.” Sherlock said as he stepped carefully around congealed puddles of blood. He crouched by the body, reaching out to touch the bone that was exposed from the neck, tilting his own head. “A bone saw. Old. There is rust.” He pointed these out as John approached, the Mechanic looking a tad uneasy.

“It doesn’t really make sense though.” John quipped, rubbing his brow as he looked around from his crouched position. “What I mean to say is, there is not enough evidence for the decapitation to have happened here and there is too much evidence of a fight that doesn’t look to have happened at all. They don’t fit.”

If Sherlock could describe it, he could safely say he was feeling profoundly proud. Very, very proud. For all his commonness, John was learning and learning quick. All without formal training. He was a Mechanic. A clever one, yes, but just a simple mechanic. Yet here he was deducing pivotal clues to a bloody murder and Sherlock was incredibly pleased. “You are correct. I don’t believe either of those scenarios took place in this room. Both were set up.” He stood and John stood with him.

Turning to scan the room, the mixed pieces of two different puzzles fell into place. A fight seemed to have taken place here, but no signs could be found on the body. But just the same there wasn’t a single indication to show that this body had been mutilated here. And regardless of how clean the murderer might have been, there would have been a sign.

“Sherlock.”

Looking up, he saw John had moved across the room to where a desk lamp with a ruined shade was turned on. His head was bowed, examining something that had been left behind, something untouched by the myriad of blood splatters otherwise coating the room. Sherlock joined his companion, face tight with concentration as he took the card in his hand.

It was a standard Bicycle© brand playing card.  
King of Diamonds.  
Head crossed out.

John looked up to Sherlock as the other studied the card, turning it, running his thumb along then against the side, then bringing it up to his nose, smelling, finding nothing. “That’s like the one we found before, right?” John asked quietly and Sherlock lifted his eyes to watch him.

“Yes. Same deck I am assuming. I would need to look at the other card again to be sure.” He scanned the room once more and then shook his head. “This complicates things greatly.”

-

Two hours and six bags of evidence later, Sherlock and John returned to their flat. The body had been delivered to the morgue to be inspected later (by Sherlock only of course) but for now, Sherlock needed to compare cards.

“So what does this one make it, three?” John asked, slumping tiredly in his favorite chair, rubbing his face then looking up to Sherlock. The other was at their kitchen table, laying out three cards. “Correct. One, the King of Spades, eyes marked out. Found with a body whose eyes had been removed.”

“That was awhile ago.” John remarked. “One of our first cases together.”

“Yes… Two. The King of Clubs. Found in Kintyre. Hands marked out, mirroring the hands removed from the body. Hands never recovered. And three. King of Diamonds. Head marked out, head removed.”

“Think someone is trying to tell us something?” John sounded unsure, nervous and Sherlock had to turn and observe, see for himself the showings of the human frailty. John was breakable, fragile and he was also completely aware of this fact. Unlike Sherlock, John was finite. If he died, he died. Sherlock could be remade, retaught, reset. John could not. While Sherlock was sure his friend was not scared (John never seemed frightened) he did sound anxious, no doubt at the thought that someone might be playing them.

“I think we need to find the King of Hearts.” He replied instead, turning to go change.

When he returned, clad in more comfortable clothing, John was pulling on his coat. Quite the opposite of Sherlock, really. A frown hit Sherlock’s brow and he moved towards him. “Where are you going?”

“Hm? Oh,” John was trying to fix the collar behind his neck. “Just down to the shop. I need to pick up some milk. And maybe get some take-away.” He replied.

“You cannot go.” He said it before he had thought the words through, an action that hadn’t happened before.

“Why not?”

“Because it is late. And it is too far.”

“It is just a block away.”

“It isn’t safe.”

“It’s fine.”

“You won’t be safe.”

Where was this coming from? Why was he saying such thing, such illogical and irrational things? Of course John would be safe. The shop really was only a block away, less even, and it wasn’t late enough to cause alarm at walking around alone. Plus, they lived in a safe enough area. It wouldn’t take John long, either. But still, Sherlock did not want him to leave.

If he was human he would understand that what he was feeling was called intuition.

Alas he was not and therefore after a brief but amusing parlay, John convinced Sherlock to allow him to leave under the condition that he would only get takeaway from a restaurant on the exact path back to the flat and to not go out of his way in any manner to get food. If such an action was required, then food was to be forgotten and instead cooked there in the kitchen. Sherlock even agreed to clean up.

It was rather shocking, to be honest.

“Don’t worry,” John started, on his way out the door. “I’m always safe, okay? Plus, I’ve got you.” He winked and smiled and then trotted down the stairs, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he moved off across the street.

Sherlock, shook his head and watched him from the window, pulling aside the curtain discreetly to look upon his companion with worried affection. “John, you will never be safe. Especially not with me.” He murmured to himself. When John was out of his line of sight, he let the curtain drop and returned to the kitchen to examine the cards once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/23089762018/the-murder-on-34th-was-a-gruesome-one-no-wall-was)


	8. Chapter 8

The events that led up to their current predicament were wild and mildly unbelievable and to be saved for another time. The stories would come, of their harrowing foot chase through the darkened sleepy city, jumping over railways and turnstiles, cutting corners and acting heroic for the sake of doing good. John would tell some friendly blokes when they took him out to the bar and put one too many beers in his system. He would tell of Sherlock’s brilliance, of the deduction that saved six children and three cats. He would tell of how once he was able to catch two of the bad guys by being faster than them despite being hurt. He would tell of how the both of them, a lonely mechanic and his fantastic friend, bested two of the smartest fugitives in London at the time.

But he would not tell them of the trap they were led into. He would not tell them of the power surge that knocked out Sherlock. He would not tell them of the bar that hit him across the head. He would not tell them of the blood running in his eyes or the way Sherlock looked at him when he’d rebooted. He would not tell them of the laugh that still made his skin crawl. Or the smell of rich perfume and sweet cigarettes that hung to the expensive fibers of her silken dress. He would not tell them of the woman who had outsmarted a robot. Or of the man who had sunk three bullets into John’s chest.

He would not tell them of the smell that hit his nose or the taste that laid on his tongue.

He would not tell them how cold tiles feel beneath quivering knees.

He would not tell them of the sounds he heard underneath the rushing ocean waves of blood in his ears.

And he would not tell them of the broken record whispers he heard come from Sherlock’s mouth.

John, he would not tell.

John, no John no no, no John John no he would not tell.

John john john john stop john john no john stop john not tell john please no tell no john please.

He would not tell.

Those words were his. Heard amongst the rush in his ears and the feel in his knees and the smell in his nose and the taste on his tongue. Heard when he could no longer see, no longer sense, no longer breathe. Heard when he was dead. Heard in his dreams.

No, John Watson would not tell. The words that would forever rest on the tip of his tongue, in his mouth, along his teeth and in his throat. Those were his, given to him by a man with no heart. By a man with no heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/23275628187/the-events-that-led-up-to-their-current)


	9. Chapter 9

“I do not understand this one, Mycroft.”

“Understand what?”

“This emotion. I do not understand this _specific_ emotion.”

“Anger? You’ve been angry before, Sherlock, we both know that.”

A heavy sigh caught in the wind. “No. Not anger. Something else, something worse.”

Mycroft paused as he turned to look at Sherlock, frowning some. He may have helped in the building of this revolutionary being, but he couldn’t begin to pretend that he understood him in his entirety. Sherlock was a thing, a creature all his own. It was why Mycroft had brought in John Watson. The man might seem ordinary but he saw the pattern in the pieces that Mycroft needed to decode the puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. “Well, then describe to me what it is you are experiencing and I will try to assist in assessing just what emotion it is.”

Sherlock put his face to the wind and if Mycroft didn’t know any better he would say the bot was sad, stricken even. He was looking past the city, past the sky, wandering the naked, looming corridors of his mind. “I do not know how to describe it properly. I feel angry, yes, but not in the same manner. I feel… lost? No, no that is not correct. I am not lost but I feel lost, confused. Is this what confused feels like? Like I am at a loss for what to do with myself? I feel as if I have no purpose, Mycroft. I feel useless. How do I feel that way? How am I, irreplaceable and best at what I do, useless?” He turned to the other, eyes imploring, lips tight.

“You are not useless. You know this Sherlock. You will always have a use, a purpose.”

“Yes! I understand this, yes. But I do not have use right now. I care not to work on cases. I don’t wish to look at bodies. I just wish… I just.” He had to stop. Being lost for words, having trouble even expressing himself in the simplest of terms was new for him. New and unwelcome. He was not familiar with this state, this state of mental disrepair. ”Help me, Mycroft. I do not understand this.” His voice sounded so human, so provincially organic and honest because inside his supercomputer mind, inside the head that knew so much, he did not know this, he could not handle this. “I don’t understand.”

“It is called guilt, Sherlock. Guilt and what I would assume is grief.”

“Nonsense. Why would I be grieving? And why should I feel guilty.”

“Well, you’re grieving for your loss. You’re grieving because you are upset. And I don’t believe you _should_ feel guilty but I believe you do. For not being there sooner, for not stopping the sniper from shooting John Watson. You feel guilty for his injuries, because you brought him there and because you have done nothing to deter his unhealthy habit of following you around by the sleeve.”

Sherlock turned sharply to hiss at the other man.

“Oh do not give me that. I can be observant too. And I also know you greatly enjoyed the attention. You enjoyed the fact that he stuck by your side and you flew into situations without proper forethought. Not for yourself, no, you always think of yourself. But for John and his own safety. You thrust him into situations forgetting the most crucial and, decidedly, most important aspect of him: his mortality. John Watson is fragile and finite. I believe you forget that. I believe that you _forgot_ that, which led to where we are now.”

Sherlock couldn’t look at Mycroft, couldn’t face the truth because the truth made those vile feelings within his chest more vagrant and acrid. They tasted bitter on his tongue, sounded painful to his ears, and made his skin prick and hum in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe as pleasant. He felt simultaneously sick and angry, grief stricken… and guilty. “You speak of him as if he is dead.”

“Well, he very nearly is. And actually, if we look at the facts, he HAS died. Twice now.”

“Why are you telling me this? I was under the impression that “family” was supposed to show support in times of elevated stress and emotional compromise.” Anger was bubbling up over the other things he felt, forcing him to cut sharp glares in the direction of the man with the umbrella.

“Under normal circumstances, yes. I most certainly would. But I believe a large dose of reality will be healthy for you Sherlock. I sympathize with your pain, and I apologize that you are ill prepared to deal with the emotions that follow, but you need to understand the entirety of this situation and where you stand in it if you are ever going to understand the rest. If you are choosing to participate in society and act human, you must know the consequences that come with that. Humanity comes at a price, love highest of all. If you wish to understand this, experience this, then you must take responsibility for your actions while doing so.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.” He spoke through grit teeth.

“Yes you do. Don’t insult us both by saying otherwise. Go back downstairs. Go back to his room. Exist, with him, be there. He may be unconscious but the company will be appreciated. I promise.” Mycroft left with a tip-tap of his umbrella on the rooftop, the door creaking loudly but left open for Sherlock. Soon after, it would swing closed behind the tall automaton as he moved downstairs to take up his residence back in the chair by John’s bedside. As the silence filled the room again and the white noise in Sherlock’s mind threatened to drive him mad once more, he reached forward and slid his hand into John’s, feeling the warmth from his human companion and finally beginning to understand the beauty in the human fragility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/23470400644/i-do-not-understand-this-one-mycroft)


	10. Chapter 10

When John Watson woke, it had been three days, seven hours, twelve minutes and thirty eight seconds since the first bullet had torn through his chest. He had died twice in the emergency room. His chest would forever be scarred by the wicked weaponry that tried to take him for good. But he was alive.

And he was not alone.

When John Watson woke, it had been two days, fifteen hours, eleven minutes and forty seven seconds since Sherlock had come back to his side. When he had sat down he had taken up his hand. He had yet to let it go. His own inhuman side was apparent in his lack of eating or sleeping but it allowed him to be ever vigilant. John Watson was to be protected. Sherlock would make sure of that.

As he came to, slowly and with a foggy mind, Sherlock registered first his change in heart rate and then his change in breathing. He turned his eyes down to watch the other’s face, attempting to ignore the desire to hold tighter to John’s hand, and failing miserably at doing so. He licked his lips and waited, continuously running his scans of John’s body, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on John’s, begging them to open.

When they finally did, he could admit he had never felt so relieved.

No words were said, not motions made, Sherlock simply watched as John held his sight, clearing his muddled mind with the frustratingly slow pace only a human could have. He would blink, close his eyes for short moments at a time, and then open them once more, never leaving Sherlock’s face, never breaking his stare. His lips were dry, his throat probably more, but Sherlock would not be the first to move, would not be the first to end this monumental wordless conversation.

I am so sorry, he was saying. Please, I won’t do it again.

“Your hand is warm.” John’s voice was so weak, dangerously so, but still, despite the effort it was no doubt taking to speak from a chest with three holes in it, he still managed to sound surprised. And if he wasn’t grimacing from the dawning pain, Sherlock was sure he would be smiling. “Your hand is warm, from holding my hand.” He was learning to deduce even in his current state. “Clever.” He let out a puff of breath that was meant to be a laugh then closed his eyes again.

Their hands stayed connected.

Sherlock had but a moment of panic at the site of John once more laying quiet with his eyes shut, looking like death himself, before he concluded (and not soon enough, he might add) that John must surely just be tired and even the minimal conversation he’d had had taken a great deal of effort. His vitals were all saying conscious, awake. Sherlock just had to be patient.

Patience was not a virtue to a robot but he had proven that he could be quiet and idle for long periods of time, already. A few more minutes would not kill him. It might drive him mad, but it would not kill him. And so he waited, eyes ever watchful on his mechanic, waiting for him to open his eyes once more.

“You staring at me like that won’t make me better.” John said with a quirk of his lips, giving Sherlock’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You can get me some water, though, to keep yourself busy.” He suggested but when Sherlock didn’t move or say anything he finally opened his eyes in question.

“The water is on the other side of the room.”

Upon inspection, John saw that to be true. “Yes… that’s right.”

“My arms do not span the length of the room, John.” He spoke in a condescending manner, rolling his eyes as if this were the least complicated thing to understand.

“I can see that… so?”

“So. I cannot reach it.”

John watched him, confused for a long moment before it clicked. He smiled, slowly and nodded, turning his hand just a bit to push open Sherlock’s. His fingers hurt, he could tell they’d been injured too, but they didn’t hurt so bad that it kept him from lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s, notching them together. “Fine. I guess if I haven’t died yet, I can wait till the nurse comes in to get me some water.”

A comfortable quiet settled over the two as John closed his eyes again and Sherlock seemed to finally unlock his body, sinking down into the unforgiving chair that the hospital provided. He was better now, better now that he could see John alive, see him breathing stronger, eyes open, speaking clearly. Now that he didn’t see red every time he looked at his mechanic, or hear the stuttering, wet breaths of the man as he held onto his arms. He could relax now that he knew John would live.

“I was worried about you.” He murmured, unable to look up to the man, still not comfortable with these new emotions he’d never been designed for. “I did not know what to do. With you or with myself.”

John opened his eyes. “Have you never been worried before?”

“No,” There was a pause. “Don’t make me feel that way again.”

John was tired. He’d been shot. He’d died. Twice, no less. He still had countless hours of recovery ahead of him. But he did not look away nor did he scoff at Sherlock’s poorly veiled threat. Instead he unlaced their fingers, lifted his arm and slid a shaky hand behind Sherlock’s neck. Then he pulled him down to fit their lips together instead.

I am so sorry, he was saying. Please, I won’t do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/23533725740/when-john-watson-woke-it-had-been-three-days)


	11. Epilogue

“So I was the king of hearts?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid I’d feel more flattered if I hadn’t been shot three times.”

“Yes I’d imagine so.”

Recovery had been slow but progress had been made. There were quite a few days, right after John had come to again, where they were fearful he might go back under. The trauma plus the extreme loss of blood had almost been too much for his body. Almost. But Sherlock had been clever and with a few… upgrades and three months, John was back on his feet.

Sherlock and John were now more alike than ever.

“You said she’s in custody, right?” There was a tone to John’s question, barely recognizable by anyone other than those who knew him best. Thus, it made Sherlock’s head lift from the kitchen table while Mycroft remained oblivious.

“Yes. Irene Adler, otherwise known as The Woman, has been in the custody of the royal government for three weeks now. We are seeing to the arrest of her associate, a sharpshooter known as Sebastian Moran, but he is proving to be… elusive.” The last word was spoken tightly, as if Mycroft was irritated that anyone would be able to escape his capable clutches. “She asked to see you again, John. I declined in your stead.”

“Uh, yes. Right, yes that was for the best.” He smirked and then looked down, touching his chest where there was still residual pain. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t fear that woman somewhere deep inside. She’d outsmarted Sherlock and gotten the jump on them both. And in the end she probably would have killed John as intended if Sherlock hadn’t tackled her down. She was in custody now, yes, but she hadn’t been for the better part of two months. It didn’t seem as though she’d committed anymore Royal Murders (as John was fondly calling her penchant for leaving playing cards with her victims) but the possibility had been looming over them all while she was free and it wasn’t until they’d gotten news of her arrest that John finally started to relax.

A weight settled by his side and he looked up to see Sherlock sitting next to him now. Though the robot didn’t seem to be paying him any attention, instead fiddling with the contraption that he’d had at the table, John could see the comfort in the gesture plain as day. And he most certainly appreciated it.

As for the two of them over these three months? Well they were taking things one step at a time. There was still a lot to be determined about a relationship between a human and a bot and while they wouldn’t be the first, their relationship was definitely new. No other robot had emotions that could even mime what a human felt and Sherlock surpassed that by leagues, not simply mimicking back creating, learning and having legitimate emotions of his own. Despite being with him for at least a year, John still found this fact fantastic.

Mycroft was wise to the two of them, of course, but he respectfully only asked John questions, knowing that Sherlock would simply see the inquiries as a form of criticism. And Sherlock never took criticism well. The questions were minimal, of course, mostly to aid his own research into other bots like Sherlock. But he was curious on a personal level as well. John was mindful, though, of Mycroft’s interest and their own privacy and wouldn’t always answer his questions. Some things, the intimate and personal things, were only for John and Sherlock to know.

Still on the tail end of his recovery, John was seeing that today was going to be one of his tired days. One of the days where the wounds now nearly healed in his chest, felt heavy and raw. Days like today were the ones he liked to spend alone, with Sherlock. Where Sherlock would reprimand him for exerting too much energy and using up his strength while allowing him to rest on his chest. Where Sherlock would touch the back of his neck or along his shoulder blade where fresh and ugly scars painted stories like a tapestry on his back. Where Sherlock would wait till he thought John was asleep (even though his system must know that John is not) and then tell him how he thinks he feels, how he doesn’t know how to handle those feelings and how he is okay with that because he knows John will help him when he wakes.

Yes, days like today were the ones where he wanted to have the flat to themselves. He felt heavier, in his bones, and he assumed that was simply what death did to you. You can’t die, twice, and not feel some echoes of the consequences. Sinking a little further down into the couch he let his eyes close and his shoulder rest against Sherlock’s.

“Now that The Woman is in custody,” Sherlock refused to refer to her by her given name. “What projects is the agency working on.” He was clearly trying to get Mycroft on a new subject, a subject that was more likely to have him thinking about the office and thus returning to it.

“Well, I was going to bring it up when I had more schematics put together but I suppose now is as good a time as any other.” He put his phone away to look up to the two of them. “We’re working on another like yourself, a pseudo-robot.”

“Like me?”

“Yes. While we will be tweaking the emotional parameters, we are working to create another that is systematically human, though predominantly robotic.”

“Am I to be replaced then? Will he be investigating the crime scenes now?” Sherlock was bristling at the idea of someone intruding on his territory.

“Oh no, no. Quite the contrary. You will continue your current task of crime scenes. The new project will be more interested in the criminals themselves.”

“Oh. Good.” Sherlock seemed subdued now. “What are you calling it?”

“We don’t have a name for it yet. And as I know you will likely be hacking into our systems before I can even leave this building, I’ll do you the favor of saving you some time. It is project M zero R one dash four RT. I will send his files over when I get back to the office and you can send me any suggestions you may have. Until then, stay out of our network.” He put a watchful eye to the robot who seemed more interested in John than the current conversation.

“Yes, yes, now go away please.”

“So polite.” He sneered but without the ill tongue he often held. The fondness he found when he looked between the two tended to quell any annoyances. “I will be back next week to check up on your recovery, John.” He headed for the door, hooking his umbrella over his arm. “Ta.” And then he was gone, shutting the door behind him.

“You really should be nicer to him.” John murmured, looking up to Sherlock and smiling when the other leaned forward to rest their foreheads together. “He has done a lot for us.” Cool fingers lifted to rest over John’s pulse, checking, always checking.

“I will send him a cake later.”

“Well now you’re just being cruel.”

With a smile from the bot and a kiss to follow, the apartment was left to be filled with the quiet laughter of its two, happy inhabitants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original post + chapter graphic: [Click here](http://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com/post/23655884315/so-i-was-the-king-of-hearts-yes-im-afraid)


End file.
